Eeeny Weeny Whiny Emo!

OK - its been a while coming I grant you, but I have some light entertainment for once.  Those who are easily offended have come to the right place:  being extremely lazy I aim to do as little work at being offensive as possible.  (Luckily I can rely more on native talent than hard work there!)

"Emo" - for those like myself who didn't know - is a catch-all term for (among many, many other things) a kind of youth cult which seems to be a watered down spin-off from Goth.  God I detest the very word but the actual subculture itself is even more ridiculous.

If you took Punk and cut off its balls, locked it in a cupboard and made it watch reruns of Countdown, gave it hormone replacement therapy, and set it free in a HMV store, it would be lapped up by these losers, who entirely fail to commit suicide due not only to a general lack of committment but also the fact that they are using a Phillishave on their wrists instead of real cold steel.  Good-old-fashioned self-inflicted suffering has gone out the window, to be replaced by a vague dissatisfaction with the amount of mass-produced teeny-bop and Playstation (or Xbox - like it makes a difference) one can fit into an empty life.

Yes ladies and grunts - Pop has eaten itself and, finding itself completely indigestible, it has thrown up all over the local McDonalds restaurant.  Evanescence is not a property of Schweppes, but a pseudo-heavy refutation of the argument that art can be made by conveyor belt try-hards with tinted hair and iron-on tattoos.  My Chemical Romance sounds like a Barbara Cartland expose (but with less literary merit).  And who gives a shit about Taking Back Sunday? - they can fucking have it!

Back when I were young (yes I know - centuries ago), dyed hair was something likely to get you beaten to a pulp by the local jocks.  Now carrying a hanky is less conformist.  And wearing your skin-tight pants around your ankles does not indicate that you are too poor to afford an iron-studded belt, but your inability to handle complex objects like buckles (or knots - the old piece of rope is thus a non-viable alternative both for trouser-retention and stretching your miserable neck).

This is not to say that Goth is dead, rather it has been taken prisoner by illiterate halfwits who have never even heard of Shelley, let alone actually read his teen-bride's seminal scifi masterpiece or a single verse of his bloody poetry (this of course would require a grasp of written language).  If anyone discovers its whereabouts please blow the bars and cut the razor tape - 'cause it will take some rescuing I am telling you!  Robert Smith would be turning in his shallow grave, except that he got out of it years ago and went looking for a life.

Why, even the drugs these days are pathetic:  no chemically enhanced incursions into the long dark night of the soul for these wimps, just designer pills which make you feel good for Christ's sake.  Go and get yourself properly drug-fucked I say...